Umpire
by kouw
Summary: The yearly cricket match is being played on a beautiful English summer's day and the status quo is suddenly completely overthrown. Rating subject to change.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **I've been thinking of this story for a while now and finally managed to write it. I hope you'll all enjoy it and please don't hesitate to leave me a review with any and all commentary. Thank you Deedee for your kickass beta. Without your help, this fic would be semicolonless.

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><p><strong>Summary:<strong> The yearly cricket match is being played on a beautiful English summer's day and the status quo is suddenly completely overthrown.

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><p><strong>Rating:<strong> This first chapter is a K+, next will be... not...

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><p>She watches him from the sideline, as she always has. The sun is beaming down, the players sport rosy cheeks and a sheen of perspiration. There's the sound of leather on wood; the cheers of the small crowd gathered around the field are loud in her ear. She isn't here to support either team, not this year. She's never quite understood the rules, though she tried. She has always preferred to watch football herself; the rules were clear, the game straightforward. She had played as a girl - not competitively of course, but with neighbour children, in the fields behind the farm. Before 'behaving like a young lady' and before getting trapped in a corset and long skirts.<p>

The whistle blows. The game is over. She watches him shake hands with several players and smiles when she finally catches his eye. She inclines her head - a question: are you alright? - he nods with a warm smile - I'm fine, not to worry. He makes his way to the tent, takes a cup of tea from Daisy and a custard tart and sits down heavily on the bench in the shade of the big oak tree. She wants to join him, starts to walk but is distracted by the questions and gossip from the ladies she's not yet spoken to during the game and interval.

_Cricket takes forever_, she thinks. The game itself took eight hours to conclude and now she still cannot get away. She answers questions and watches him from the corner of her eye. He has been joined by Mr Bates and by his Lordship. He is sitting up straight, much too straight to be comfortable. She feels for him - he's been on his feet for so long, with such short breaks. He's not used to such strain anymore. But he looks well. Happy.

When the crowd finally disperses, she strides over to the old oak tree. Mr Bates has left with Anna; Lord Grantham has gone home with his wife and daughters. She sits down next to him. For a long moment they don't speak. She doesn't even look at him. It's enough to feel his presence, to hear his steady breath.

"Are you ready, then, Mr Carson?" she asks and turns to face him.

"I think I am." he answers and smiles again.

"Did it feel very different?" She is gets to her feet quickly, reaches out for him and he takes her hand before getting up - he is stiff, she can easily see it.

"Yes, it wasn't the same as it was before, but it was a good game." His voice rumbles, she can feel his chest vibrating slightly against her arm as he's taken hers. His cricket whites are slightly dusty, but not as bad as they were last year. His spencer looks clammy with perspiration. "Never thought Mr Molesley would be able to throw a googly." he chuckles a bit.

They walk on, talking of the game. After opening the door, she leads him down the corridor, into the kitchen. She takes off her hat - she never bothered with a coat; the sun was hot when she woke up that morning - and rubs her right shoulder with her left hand.

The light catches on her ring.

"Best get you in a tub, I'd say, or you'll be right sore tomorrow." she offers, her accent sounding stronger than usual. He sighs deeply.

"I wish we had a bathroom with a nice big bath, so I could stretch out a bit." he confesses.

"Well, there isn't one, so you'll have to make do with what we've got." She is busying herself with the kettle, with a bucket to fill the zinc tub he is already pulling out of the cupboard under the stairs*. He is breathing heavily, a combination of today's strain and the weight of the tub.

When the water boils, Elsie starts filling the tub and turns her back to allow her husband to undress in relative privacy. It's been two months since they married, but she is not used to seeing him - all of him.

She hears the rustle of wool and cotton. The sound of his trousers dropping after the distinct double thud of his shoes. He must be in his underwear now and she can feel her blood rushing to her cheeks. She knows there's no need to feel embarrassed, but she's lived a solitary life so long, a lonely life. To share her life so intimately is still new; it still makes her uneasy.

She can hear him get in the tub - it creaks slightly and the water sloshes around him - and she knows he has to fold himself almost in half to fit in there and that he'll likely be as stiff getting out as he was getting in.

_The disappointment of age_, she thinks. How your experience gives a person wisdom, but not the strong body to carry it.

"Is everything alright?" she asks tentatively, not entirely sure she should turn around yet.

"Could do with a bit more warm water." he says, his voice is soft, almost apologetic. Maybe he is still nervous about being naked in her vicinity too.

"I'll put another kettle on." she offers.

As she turns on the tap, she remembers a story she once read about lovers who lived far away from their community, their home a sanctuary of one room with nothing to furnish it but a big brass bed. The couple had a porcelain bathtub behind the house and they would fill it with water from the well. They would get in that tub together and wash each other's backs (and other parts that she cannot think of without her heart pounding, her stomach sinking).

The story had always remained with her, even though she doesn't remember where she read it or who wrote it.**

The whistle from the kettle brings her back to her own kitchen, to her husband folded up in that small tub they own. She takes a deep, steadying breath and turns.

"Can I… get you some more hot water?"

She tries to look anywhere but _there_.

But she needn't worry - he is covering himself somehow and all she sees is the broad chest with the smattering of silver hair, his strong arms (he has a tan, it stands in stark contrast where his wrists meet his forearms, where his neck meets his back). His cheeks are flushed with the sun's biting kiss.

She carefully empties most of what's in the kettle into the tub and puts it back on the stove. Charles lets out a blissful sigh and she pulls two mugs from the cupboard and makes them tea. She hands him the mug. His hand curls around the crockery and Elsie is reminded of her story, where the lovers drank red wine in the bath after cleaning each other thoroughly, getting more inebriated than Elsie had ever been in her life.

She drinks her tea, wipes the counter, takes the shepherd's pie she's made in advance from the icebox and puts it in the oven. It's all a matter of minutes and she hears her husband taking small sips of his tea and splashing about.

He hums a little tune under his breath.

_Dashing away with a smoothing iron... Dashing away with a smoothing iron... She stole my heart away..._

She bites her lip. "I'll… I'll get you a towel." she says and runs upstairs, where pulls out a big towel from the airing cupboard. It's warm - everything in the house is warm; the sun has been beating down on it all day. She sees herself reflected in the mirror as she passes it.

She doesn't quite know what to make of herself. Is it the same Elsie who looks back at her as it was half a year ago? Nothing much has changed besides her name, besides her place of residence. She is wearing a new dress in the new style with the raised hems and the lower neckline (she had wanted to show everyone married life agrees with her, that she is happy, that she is enjoying her newfound freedom).

She is thankful nobody has asked her about her newly married status, that nobody has come to her with smirks on their faces, expecting to hear about Charles Carson's virility. She wouldn't know how to react. Or she would simply have stared them down, like she is wont to when she doesn't want to say anything, when she doesn't have the words.

He's not seen her 'in the altogether' yet and it's been eight weeks. They have established a pleasant routine. They are enjoying each other's company, the companionship, the warmth of something that is more than just friendship. But she wouldn't know what to name what they have.

They are not lovers - not like they are made out to be in novels (and newspapers like Richard Carlisle's). Or in the story she keeps thinking of today.

She loves him. She loves him deeply. They have always cared for each other, back at the Abbey as they do here, but he's not… made any demands on her.

She had expected him to. They do share a bed and he's a _man_ after all (a very attractive man, very attractive indeed). But they turn their backs when they undress. They change into pyjamas and nightgowns that completely cover them. He kisses her cheek before rolling over - always careful to keep from stealing the blankets.

He spoons her during the night - she doesn't know if he is aware of it.

They always wake up on their respective sides of the bed, not touching.

She sighs and descends the stairs again, ready to leave him the towel in the kitchen and to make herself comfortable on the settee with another cup of tea until he is dressed again and it's time for dinner. When she opens the door, she isn't ready for what she sees at all.

Charles Carson, large as life, standing in the tub, in all his glory. Naked as the day he was born.

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><p><em>to be continued<em>

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><p>* People didn't usually have bathrooms in the 1920s, but bathed in the kitchen, close to the stove for easy access to (hot) water. Perhaps Tom and Mary have had all the cottages done up spectacularly, but for the purposes of my story, I'm sticking to this. My granny (who moved to a house with an actual bathroom in 1967) stood in a small zinc tub to wash herself. She'd fill it to bathe her babiesyoung children ← because obviously you all need to know this…

** Shamelessly stolen from a Born and Bred episode


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you everybody for your responses, reviews, follows and favourites - you are the best! I hope this second chapter lives up to everybody's expectations. Please note that the rating has gone up from K+ to T. Thank you deeedeee for your fantastic beta and for teaching me all these new things about semicolons, comma use and capitals!

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><p>Her breath hitches.<p>

She's never been confronted with a naked man before. Her blood rushes in her ears and she does the only thing she can think of: she thrusts the towel into his hands, turns on her heel and runs back into the corridor, her hand pressed against her breastbone.

Of course she knew he was tall and broad, and that he would be strong - after all, she has seen him in the bath a few times now, has helped him fill it, but he always covered himself somehow and she had not seen…

_that_.

Not ever.

Her heart is pounding and she is leaning against the wall, the back of her head against the wallpaper. It's been a hot day, but that has nothing to do with the heat that seems to burn from within her.

_It's not like in museums at all_, she thinks. Not that she's often been. But enough to see some of those Greek statues. And Charles is nothing like the white marble likenesses of soldiers and gods.

He was…

_different._

God, her lower belly feels tight, her thighs tremble.

She can hear him shuffling around in the kitchen and she knows with sudden clarity he doesn't have a change of clothes.

There's the soft chink of his mug on the kitchen counter, the sound of the bucket filling with water from the tub and it emptying in the sink.

Elsie makes her decision and calls out to him from the hall:

"I'm just stepping out, Mr Carson. We've run out of milk."

Oh it's a lie, a blatant lie, but what else can she do? She grabs her hat and stalks out the door.

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><p>She comes home to the smell of burnt shepherd's pie and a sheepish-looking Charles Carson.<p>

"I'd forgotten about our tea until I smelled it burning…"

She swallows. "It's alright. Don't worry about it."

"But you've brought the milk at least." he replies and she frowns.

"Milk?"

"You went for a pint of milk." He prompts her and she bites her lip.

"Oh, yes. Of course. I was too late."

It had taken her twenty minutes to walk over to Mr Trevellyan's. It normally takes her five. Her thoughts kept returning to seeing Charles in the nude. Of course he is her husband, but to see him like that, the sun caressing his shoulders and damp hair and his hips narrow and her eyes being drawn to…

She coughs and he softly pats her back.

"Are you alright, Mrs Hughes?" he asks and it's immensely steadying how he uses her own name. Not that they often call each other by any name at all, but still.

"Yes. Yes, of course." She looks up and finds he is looking a bit shy as well. She had not thought how he must feel about what happened.

Perhaps they are more on even footing than she initially thought: she had been convinced she was the only one mortified by their encounter (mortified and something else - something she doesn't dare name, doesn't dare admit to feeling).

"It's still a bit early to get started on dinner." She tries to make conversation.

"I just burnt it." He sounds terribly apologetic.

"I'll bake us some eggs. I think there's some bacon left."

"I'll make toast," he offers and she smiles.

"You think you dare?" she teases and it's a relief to find his bit of normalcy.

"I could always hold your hand," he quips.

She blushes.

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><p>She finds it easier to breathe when the dark finally envelops them.<p>

"Did you enjoy being umpire then?" Her voice echoes softly through the room.

"You know? I did. I'd not expected it, but it was nice to still be part of things."

"You'll always be part of things, Charles."

He doesn't answer but it doesn't feel strange or awkward.

"I think no-one could ever think of Downton without thinking of you," she continues.

"Maybe the same goes for you." His voice rumbles, she can almost feel it vibrate through their bed. He is warm; she can feel it coming off him. The room is stifling too, even with the window wide open and the night breeze coming in. Her blankets are too warm, but she daren't kick them off. In her old room - in the attic of Downton Abbey - she would take off her clothes and sleep under her sheet on hot nights like this.

"Oh, I don't know. I think they're probably glad to be rid of me. The old relic who told the maids every corner counts."

"Every corner does count," he says and it's lovely.

To be supported so easily, without restraint.

She sighs deeply, pushes the covers down to her waist. She's left her gown unbuttoned. As far as she dared. She doesn't want him to think her shameless, brazen.

His hand touches hers.

Elsie swallows hard.

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><p>He's not reached for her in eight weeks. They had spent their wedding night on their own sides of the bed after sharing a kiss.<p>

It had been enough.

It still would be if it weren't for his hand now sliding up the soft skin of her inner arm, towards the crook of her elbow. He turns and she knows he is watching her.

She doesn't know what to do. His touch is not unwelcome, indeed not. She's longed for it - though she never will admit to it.

"I want to grow old with you, do you know that?" he asks. His voice is so soft, she hardly hears him and his hand is leaving her arm to tenderly cup her cheek.

"And aren't you?" she responds, her own voice barely more than a whisper, unable to keep back the shy smile that breaks free, his admission liberating.

"I am. You make me happy. I hope you know that too." His fingertips trace the contours of her face, map her cheekbones, the bridge of her nose.

"I do." She knows, but the assurance is nice. Wonderful even. "You make me happy too." She says it because it's true: he does make her happy - he gives her the comfort of what home is, the stability she's been so used to ever since she's started in service (stability she would never have had if she married Joe, always one failed crop away from going without sustenance; always one stillborn calf away from a winter with holes in the soles of her shoes)

He shuffles, she can feel him carefully inching closer. His pyjama-clad leg touches her bare one. His lips take the place of his tentative fingers. Featherlight, his lips touch hers. She doesn't know if she should press hers back, doesn't know if she could breathe, doesn't know exactly what he expects.

They've never been in this position before. His hand lands on the flat plane of her stomach and it's warm, so warm - the room is still so hot, the night air still stifling, the blankets are trapping them - her blood is rushing fast, too fast, she can hear it thrumming in her ears.

Is this… _it_?

Well… not 'it' as such - she knows how the mechanics work, she may not be a woman of the world, but she doesn't live in a sack after all.

But his hand slowly slides over the cotton of her summer nightgown to grab hold of her waist and he pulls her flush against him. His lips are becoming more insistent. Her foot slides up and down his calf - almost of its own accord. The covers slide lower, exposing her hips, her thighs. Her gown is riding up and his hand lets go of her waist; it slides over her hip to dance over her upper leg and she shivers).

Her shivers have nothing to do with feeling cold.

A fire seems to burn in her - in her belly, in her mind; her heart is beating like a drum now; his lips are opening hers, his tongue searching for hers and it's so _odd_ and so _delicious_; it's nothing like the kisses she remembers from being a girl, from being a young housemaid, being grabbed by a delivery boy, or a third footman who is not ambitious enough to try and get promoted.

A sound escapes her and he takes hold of the hem of her gown and pulls it up, exposing her inch by inch. He fumbles slightly when his touches her underwear. She gasps - a shrill and tiny sound. He stops moving, ceases kissing her.

"I love you."

She doesn't know who says it first, who took the plunge only to be immediately followed by the other. The words tumble from her mouth and her arms snake around his neck, pulling him towards her and their kiss is searing, demanding.

She pushes herself against him, pulls him almost over her, one hand playing with the curls at the nape of his neck. She is suddenly starved for his touch and she _needs_ him.

She isn't entirely sure how, but she knows she will learn soon.

Especially now his hand disappears under her gown and touches the naked skin of her stomach, her ribcage.

Her breast.

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><p><em>to be continued<em>


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Thank you all so much for your kind words, and your excitement - it's been really inspiring! And now it's time for some old-fashioned M-rated smut. I'd say it's not safe for work… Thank you, Deedee for your kickass beta - there is nothing like finding SNL clips and funny gifs in your comments, truly, it's fantastic.

Darling readers, don't forget to let me know what you think!

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><p>She has never felt the hand of a man on her breast before (Dr Clarkson's touch had been completely different. Clinical).<p>

It's nice (it's more than nice, but she doesn't have a proper word, so she settles for 'nice' and allows herself to enjoy the way her husband - her husband! - reverently touches the jagged edges of her scar and the pebbled outline of her nipple).

He kisses her so softly, so tenderly: a trail of tiny kisses from her cheek to her jawline, all the way down the base of her throat and she doesn't understand how such a tiny touch can make her feel so good. She pulls her leg up slightly, lets it fall to the side and she is startled by his sudden pulling back.

"What… what's wrong?" she asks, her voice unrecognisable as her own.

He doesn't answer, but she can see him shrugging out of his pyjamas and she realises there is nothing _wrong_.

He quickly folds his pyjamas and lays them on the foot end of the bed. She wonders if he expects her to take off her gown. She's never exposed herself to anyone like that. She's never been completely without clothes with anyone to see since she's been old enough to bathe alone.

He approaches the bed slowly and pulls the covers down. He watches her and she can feel a blush forming high on her cheeks. Her hand flutters against her nightgown, still uncertain, still doubting. He doesn't seem to be shy about showing himself to her, but he is a beautiful man.

She is a woman of birthmarks and lost elasticity. The dark covers the wrinkles in her face, the small scars that come from a lifetime of hard work. Her youth is far behind her and there are so many thoughts whirling around and she is getting more and more worried by the moment until he is suddenly on the bed next to her. He claims her mouth with a soft but insistent kiss, with a hand that runs over her plait and her cheek; her arms find their way around him.

His bare skin - warm and soft and slightly damp from the hot night - is under the palm of her hand and she presses her fingers down, gripping his flesh. He is a man of substance: a strong, broad man.

A man… her man… and he grasps her shoulder, pulls her closer against him and her breasts are pressed against his chest, shielded only by the thin cotton of her nightgown and she can feel him against her hip and it's daunting but exciting and she knows - how clear things suddenly are when you stop thinking, when you stop analysing - _he doesn't care_ that she is not a young woman. He's not chosen her for her youth. They have chosen each other, for love, for comfort, for friendship and - so it seems - for passion.

She kisses him back eagerly then and allows him to settle between her knees. He finds the hem of her nightgown again and she can feel it slide over the top of her thighs, under her bum as she willingly raises her hips from the bed. He bends over her, kisses the softness of her belly, the dents and hills of her ribcage.

He exposes her breasts and he manoeuvres his hand so it's under her and he raises her up and the gown comes off. Only then does he lavish her chest in attention. He kisses her collarbones, the hollow between them. The rise of her breasts and she closes her eyes tightly, gasps when his soft lips kiss and nip her right breast first.

He slows down, uncertain of her, she can feel it in the hesitant motions. His hands are on either side of her and he is barely touching her. Maybe it is her turn to take the lead now and her fingers trail through his hair, pulling him closer, tighter against her breast and he suckles on her nipple and she moans. Her free hand comes around him and she pulls up her knees, wraps her ankles around him.

He almost falls on top of her and he is cradled between her thighs and she can almost feel him against her and she involuntarily jerks, craving contact, and she isn't disappointed. She can now feel what she had seen when he stood in the bath and he had shocked her so. Now she understands what it is she needs and her hands run down his back and she hooks her thumbs under the waistband of his shorts and starts pulling them down.

(All those years of telling her girls followers weren't allowed, all those years of warning them against ruin, all of that is behind her. She is free to indulge; she is married to this man, this man who lets out a shuddering breath against her neck, this man who cares for her so, who allows her to look after him. It's all give and take, all about the love they are willing to give and they receive with gladness and joy, for this _is_ joy, isn't it, it's right; it's what she's longed for since that rainy day they had gone from the church to their cottage, spurred on by their chaste kiss in front of Mr Travis and the coolness in the air, wanting to be wrapped up in his arms, to be held close to him and to feel more like a wife than a housekeeper. She_ has_ felt more like a wife, she has to admit to that - making him breakfast and folding his clothes - but not like she does now).

They kiss again, furiously. He tastes of tooth powder, of tea. His tongue is teasing, his lips soft and firm at the same time and it excites her on in a way she'd never thought possible. He is moving against her knickers and she pushes her head into the pillow, arches her back, gives as good as she gets and she loses control of the sounds coming from her mouth.

His shorts are at his knees and he doesn't pause his kisses whilst he runs his hand under her knickers and carefully slides them down an inch or two. His fingertips run through the coarse curls that cover her sex and she lets him. His fingers are sliding over her, opening her up and she's surprised by the feeling that comes from such a simple touch (not simple, indeed not! It's a touch that's always been forbidden - no man has ever done this to her, she's not even done it herself) and she lets out a shocked "Oh God!" and she can feel him smiling against her lips.

"Are you alright?" He asks and she nods, moving against his hand, wishing he'd do it again, make her feel that tightening, tingling, _wonderful_ feeling again.

He doesn't make her wait. He cups her mound quite firmly (she doesn't expect him to be clumsy, she's not expected him to be as inexperienced as she is and it's good to have him lead her in this, because she wouldn't have known what to do) and his finger presses between her folds again, deeper, further. Back and forth. Her breath hitches and she is making a lot of noise she doesn't seem to be able to stop and he is encouraging her with soft words, with tender kisses and then his finger slides inside her and her hand flies to her mouth to hold back a shrill cry that is constricted in her throat.

"That's it…" he whispers.

"Don't stop…" She pleads, still shy, but not wanting him to cease this onslaught on her senses.

"I won't…" He assures her. "Not until…" and he continues to touch her and she is breathing hard and it's overwhelming and _fantastic_.

Though he had promised, he does stop and she looks down to where his hand is and she understands why: he is trapped in her underwear and she quickly rids herself of the satin that kept her from getting as close to him as possible.

Closing that final gap is all that's left now and she sees _it_ again, looking almost angry and she worries her lip, wonders how it is going to work out (she knows rationally it should fit - she knows how this is how human beings mate, but it's daunting and frankly it's scaring her a bit. But another part of her wants it, needs it, craves it).

She is thinking too much, she concludes. After all, people have been doing this since the dawn of time. There are babies being made and born every day.

She is not the first woman to do this, nor will she be the last. She is lucky she is doing this with Charles. A good man, a kind man. He loves her. He is careful and attentive; he is focused on her pleasure (who knew there could be pleasure?) as well as his own. They are doing this together.

She can tell he is holding back, that he is giving her time and she feels so out of her depth, so inexperienced. Something she has not felt in a very long time - for years on end she has been the voice of reason and wisdom, giving out (sometimes unwanted) advice. She is accustomed to being the one who _knows_. Tears well up in her eyes. She needs his help; she needs him to show her what the next step is, what they'll do now.

She is so exposed, only the dark of the night covering her, and she has never felt more vulnerable. She is starting to tremble slightly, from nerves and the pent-up tension that is finding no release.

She is startled when he clears his throat and he takes her hand, lays it on his chest and she can feel his heart pumping steadily. His hand covers hers. They lie side by side, turned towards each other and he kisses her cheek, brushes the loose strands of hair from her forehead.

"Do you want to stop?" he asks quietly. There's not the tiniest hint of anger, or even disappointment.

She doesn't answer.

"I understand." he says and pulls her closer, kisses her temple. "Maybe this has been too sudden."

"No."

"No?"

She tries to look in his eyes, but it's too dark. She swallows hard, wipes away the tear that has fallen on her cheek. He props himself up on his elbow and reaches over her. He turns on the lamp on her bedside table and lies down again.

The room is suddenly bathed in soft light.

He is staring at her now, admiring her openly. She tries not to think of how in the light, he'll see everything.

The wrinkles around her eyes. The sag of her breasts. The scar from getting caught in one of her father's traps as a girl. That _other_ scar, from that time they never speak about. Her blood is still coursing through her veins and the feeling of his skin against hers is making her ache for more. He is so very quiet next to her and she can almost hear him thinking.

She lifts her head from his chest and kisses the smooth skin of his collarbone, runs her finger through his chest hair. She glances at his… well… _it_… It's not looking as aggressive now they're taking a moment and it's a very curious thought that she - a plain girl from the Highlands - is the one responsible for its reactions.

Tentatively she lets her hand slide over his belly, lower, lower, until she reaches it. She is startled by Charles' sharp intake of breath when she touches _it _with careful fingers. He jerks. Elsie bites her lip and sits up a bit more, trying to get closer. His hand is on her lower back, steadying her. She wraps her hand around him and the sensation of how it seems to be alive almost separately from Charles is astounding.

She experiments with her grasp of him - tighter, looser, up, down - and he is starting to breathe heavily, his fingers pressing more insistently into her back.

She swallows back a moan as she is feeling the want for him coil in her again. She lets go of him, letting her hand trail back over his belly and chest and the soft skin of his forearm to his hand. She falls back beside him. Her fingers ghost over his palm.

"Touch me again..." she asks breathlessly and he willingly answers to her plea, his fingers making her soar.

There's slickness there now and a warm softness, a need for more contact and she pushes up her hips, lets her legs part and he stops his ministrations. "Please…" She pulls at him and he moves, manoeuvring so that he is above her.

He finds her eyes.

"Yes?" He asks. She nods and steadies her breath (like when the doctor had operated on her, only this is much more pleasant, it's to place the last piece of the puzzle they are together, to be as close as she could possibly be) and he catches her soft cry with his kiss.

They are touching, moving together and she can feel him hard against her. She has her hands on his upper arms - she isn't certain who is steadying whom at this point, she is too wrapped up in the moment to think of anything but the tip of him running through her folds - and then he slowly sinks into her. She welcomes him with shallow gasps and a feeling of discomfort that slowly dissipates as he rocks them back and forth again.

Again.

Again, and it's starting to feel good, to feel as if this is what they're meant to do and she can feel a smile curling her lips and his lips are on her neck, kissing. She hears him whisper words of love, devotion, a prayer almost and she is reminded of her wedding day, of the words he'd spoken:

_With my body I honour you._


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Thank you so much everybody for your amazing support, you are a class act and I love you. As per usual by now: thank you so much, Dee - I think I may be getting the hang of this semicolon thing!

As always: reviews, commentary and all those good things are very welcome. Enjoy!

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><p>When she wakes in the morning, her legs are tangled in the sheet and her husband's head is cradled against her belly. There's a rather wet patch under her hip and when she gingerly moves, she can feel the muscles in her thighs protest. Her thoughts fly back to last night.<p>

How Charles had hovered over her, his weight on top of her, her legs wrapped around his waist, his warm breath on her neck and she remembers how she had made keening, moaning noises (explaining why her throat is feeling so raw), how he had made her come undone completely.

She had never felt anything like it before, the building sense of something bursting free and the explosion that had made her forget everything around her. She recalls his loving words and how they had turned into something wholly indecent when he whispered them in her ear, making her want him to do all those things to her again: his lips on hers, his hand on her breast, his fingers running over her sides and parting her _there_, touching her in this reverent, insistent way.

She bites her lip, holds her breath in hopes that this sudden flame of arousal will cease. It's quite unheard of: wanting to do it (because this had been _it_, all of it, a mad dash towards a finish line and exuberant victory) at all, but especially on a Sunday morning.

The room is bathed in light, it cannot be as early as she hopes it is (because if it is very early still, she might wake him with kisses and touches and maybe press herself against him until it's time to wash and dress and breakfast before church) and she can feel Charles stir. Her hand lands on top of his head, softly petting the disarray of locks and waves.

"Morning…" His voice is as hoarse as she imagines her own to be.

"Good morning…" She croaks and smiles to herself.

He turns over and groans, reaching for a spot on his back, digging his knuckles into the flesh.

"Are you alright?" she asks, scrambling up and putting her hand over his. Something clicks in her shoulder, and she rubs her neck with her free hand to chase away a stiffness that has settled there.

"I could ask you the same," he responds with a warm smile and Elsie blushes.

She nods. "I'm fine…" she says and lowers her eyes and then looks up again. He is smiling at her and reaches out. She takes his hand and he pulls - swiftly, suddenly - and she falls on top of him, her breasts against his chest, her thighs on his; they're touching from head to toe, and he wraps his arms around her, kisses her.

_Everything is different now_, she thinks as Charles cups her bottom and his kiss becomes more heated.

Yesterday she had woken up alone, the place beside her cold, the covers pulled back neatly and she had heard Charles busying himself with the kettle downstairs. She had quickly dressed, pulled back her hair (not so tight, not as tight as she had styled it the last few years she had been in service, but softer, looser, more approachable) and when she came into the kitchen, she had found her husband sporting his cricket whites and a bit of a nervous smile curling his lips.

There is nothing nervous about his lips now.

Finally she realises that all those times she has warned her girls about men and their wicked ways have been unfair and unjust. There are men who simply want to love you and that this (all of this, this kissing and hands on body parts that never see the light of day and the rising heat between them) is part of that. That love can always be partnered with lust and that there is nothing wrong with it - though it's dangerous. She should have taught her girls how to guard themselves against men who want to overpower them; she should have told them not to fall for a man's pie-crust promises. Maybe she should have given them copies of Edna Braithwaite's booklet.

He pulls back and she shakes her head, trying to clear her mind. "Is anything the matter?" she asks, still so unsure even after their new-found joy in each other.

"It's getting late and it's Sunday morning."

Elsie swallows. "Of course. Yes. I see." She stumbles over her words as her eyes are drawn to the broad expanse of her husband's chest and her hand as it's tangled in the silver curls.

"We should get dressed. We don't want to be late." He puts his hand on hers and turns it, kisses her palm and she takes a deep breath, thinking she doesn't care about being late for church. She has no need for a sermon about temperance and charity. She needs to be close to Charles, to recreate everything she has felt the night before, all those wonderful different emotions and that physical release that Mr Travis would never approve of.

"Come on, my love…" He lets go of her hand and gets up from the bed. She watches him as he wets a washcloth and starts methodically cleaning himself. She's never watched him before; she has always made certain to leave him enough privacy to get ready in the morning. She swallows hard when she sees how their kiss has affected him. When she leaves the bed, she can feel that same slickness and heat from her center as she had felt last night and she stands behind him, wraps her arms around him, lets one hand trail down the soft hair under his navel and into the coarse curls. She touches him and kisses his shoulder. His head falls back with a hiss.

"What are you doing, woman?" His voice is gruff, but he doesn't turn around, doesn't push her away.

"I think we'll be forgiven if we skip church this once."

* * *

><p>"Maybe it's time to go on a little trip now everything is more or less settled at Downton," Elsie says as she is folding the laundry in the kitchen. He is sitting at the table, reading an old <em>Gentleman's Magazine<em>*. He looks up.

"What do you mean 'settled'?" he asks.

"Well," she pauses, trying to find the right words before continuing, "Today was the second Sunday we have not been asked about anything regarding the running of the house since we've…" She hesitates.

"Since we've been married," he adds. They smile at each other and Elsie has to look away to stave off the sudden overwhelming flood of love she feels for this man.

"Yes…" She picks up one of Charles' vests and folds it, puts it on the pile. The smell of apple pie baking in the oven fills the kitchen and she cannot help but think how this domesticity - in her own house! - is such a far cry from her life back at Downton. She cannot imagine ever going back to the narrow bed and endless stairs. She is happy to take tea with Beryl from time to time and she is pleased to be asked for advice, but she'd rather spend her days looking after Charles. And being looked after.

They had almost run late for church, but it had been well worth it. She had been looked after exquisitely.

"Where would you want to go?" he asks and she takes one of his socks and fiddles with it, trying to find the right words to phrase her wish.

"You'll think me very silly," she starts. There's a hole in his sock, she puts her finger through it and pulls it back again, thinks she will have to mend it.

"I could never." He assures her and takes the sock from her hand, puts it back on the pile.

"But sentimental," she throws back and he chuckles a bit.

"You are never going to forget that, are you?" It's by no means a question and they both know the answer.

Silence hangs heavily between them.

"Well? Where am I to take you?" he asks, his voice soft.

"Have you heard of Robin Hood's Bay?" She laughs: "Of course you have, you're a Yorkshire man through and through."

He nods. "I've never been, but I've heard of it. But wouldn't you rather go back to Scotland? Or maybe visit your sister?"

"Scotland I know and my sister… Perhaps not, seeing it will be our…" She feels a blush creep up on her cheeks. "Honeymoon."

What must she sound like? Aren't they too old to be considering something like this? Everyone _knows_ what people do on honeymoon and she is suddenly quite struck that people probably _already_ think she and Charles…

She wishes she didn't care what people think.

He breaks into her thoughts with his deep voice and she thinks about how different it is now to hear him speak - that this voice that would command others to do his bidding can also be soft and tender and whisper words of dedication and yearning.

"Our honeymoon. That sounds a good reason to be going away."

"Do you think we could afford it?" she asks, ever frugal, never forgetting the forty-five pounds a year for decades and the slim raise after the war.

"I should think so." he smiles. "Why Robin Hood's Bay?" he asks.

Elsie closes her eyes. She shouldn't hide her real reason from him, she knows, but it isn't easy when it's all rather petty and small. She sits down on the chair next to him and puts her hand on his leg and wets her lips before plunging in.

"My sister once went there, before her children were born, and she wrote me two postcards saying how wonderful it was and how she felt bad for me because I would never be able to see it…" she pauses, taking a deep breath before pressing on, "As a married woman, that it would not be the same if not shared with a husband…"

"But you will."

"Now I will." She answers and leans against him, the corner of the chair's back digging into her shoulder, but it doesn't matter.

He kisses her hair and says: "I'll enquire about a place for us to stay."

"I'll start packing." she responds, smiling widely. His hand finds hers and he squeezes it softly.

* * *

><p>* <em>The Gentleman's Magazine <em>ran from the 1780s until 1922 and was one of the very first printed works to be called 'magazine'. Since this fic is set after 1922, it had to be an old one. Maybe he used to get Lord Grantham's old ones and he is finally getting the time to read them?


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:** Hello everybody! Who knew summer could be such a busy time? I am sorry to keep you all waiting so long for updates, I am really trying the best I can. But, at least this chapter is smutty! In fact, my beta - the always lovely Dee - says I'd better warn you that this is rather racy and your pants may explode. Thought I let you know in advance, so you won't sue me. Reviews are love, as always, and so very much appreciated.

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><p>Robin Hood's Bay is a small village, popular with painters and day tourists. The cobblestone streets are narrow and their room in The Laurel* small, but they've been used to small lodgings and they don't need much space - they spend most of their time out of doors or wrapped in each other's arms. The days are sunny, but the nights are cool and she's been happy to have been cuddled so close.<p>

She shifts, digging her heels further into the sand. They are sitting on Charles' coat on the beach, their shoes and socks are standing neatly side by side. They've bought fish and chips from a stall near the beach and are sharing the portion. Her fingers are sticky from the salt and vinegar. She is leaning against Charles, her head against his upper arm - soft and angular at the same time.

They are watching the sailboats disappear behind the horizon. There are children taking donkey rides and splashing about in the surf. Charles wipes his mouth thoroughly between bites with his handkerchief drops kisses in her hair from time to time.

She cannot remember ever having been this happy.

Carefree and cared for and - it's a strange and wonderful thing to admit - in love.

"Look at those little ones," he says, pointing at two young boys pottering about with a cup and a spoon, digging away in the sand, a young mother watching them with a smile.

"I remember making mud pies with my sister at the farm," she answers. "Mathair would let us, to keep us out from under her feet."

"Your mother?" he checks and she nods. "You must have been an enchanting child," he continues. Elsie smiles and turns her head to kiss his cheek.

"Not really. Just your run of the mill dark-haired, knobbly-kneed lass. The youngest of two sisters. The plain one, really. My sister was pretty and charming, I was too plain spoken, too eager to learn, too ambitious, really."

She doesn't often speak of her childhood, but Charles seems to _want_ to hear it. So she talks and he listens and then he says: "I'm glad. I am glad you were too ambitious for a life on a farm, plain spoken enough to say you didn't want a life of toiling in the dirt, looking after sheep or crops or what have you; farming. You might have wasted away."

"It's not a bad life, Charles," she counters.

"A hard life though."

"Yes. Yes, a hard life." They smile at each other and he feeds her a chunky chip and runs his finger through the small mountain of food in the newspaper to find another scrap.

"Is this what you wanted?" he asks her then and she cannot hold back the bright smile that bursts free.

"Back then or now?" she retorts, naughtily twisting his meaning - of course he means their little getaway, their honeymoon.

He silences her with a kiss.

"It's all I could have dreamed of and more," she answers when they break their kiss, a tear spilling over onto her cheek. She reaches up and touches the soft curl that is falling over his forehead. "I never imagined I would be sitting on a beach, eating chips with my husband, watching the tide roll in. I never imagined our marriage would be…"

She halts, sighs.

"I know," he says and she knows he does. They've always _known_.

"You should send your sister a postcard," he suggests and Elsie laughs.

"You don't think that would be a bit petty?' She asks.

"If we'd gone to York or to Dundee or Paris or Timbuktu, wouldn't you have sent her a postcard?"

"I suppose so." She loves how he makes this tiny bit of revenge into something sensible, something that is in no way out of the ordinary. And perhaps her sister will have forgotten all about those postcards way-back-when (Elsie had only just been promoted to Headhousemaid, she'd been a young woman, finding a husband to build a family with had still been within her grasp).

"How about we'll go and find the nicest one in town? I'll even provide you with a stamp," he teases.

Elsie grabs her stockings, rubs the sand from her feet and slides them on - trying to ignore the appreciative noises of her husband. She puts her shoes on and is quick on her feet.

"Come on then!"

* * *

><p>There is so much to discover. Scars and birthmarks and veins that spider out across the pale skin of an inner arm. The way a touch here makes him sigh, how a kiss there makes him close his eyes. How he'll shudder when she reaches for him when he thinks she is asleep and the way he traces the pulse point in her neck with the tip of his tongue will make her beg for more.<p>

More of his touch, more of his weight on top of her, more of him, deeper, faster, harder.

There are times she is quite afraid he'll find her wanton, whorish even.

There are times she thinks she cannot be too daring, that anything she'll do will meet with his approval.

She has learned a lot these past few weeks since the cricket match and the three days they have stayed in The Laurel have been no exception. Waking up early because the sound of waves crashing and the light of the dawn breaking is too much to ignore and finding he has curled himself around her, his arm possessively slung across her waist, cupping her breast through the flimsy material of her new night gown.

The ways a man and woman can fit together seem to be endless.

Today is their last day; they'll be catching the three twenty-seven - they have to make this morning count and she feels it, feels it deeply, inescapable.

She has woken him during their nights here, had kissed him full of love, full of urgency and need. "I love you," she had said. He had pulled her close and kissed her slowly, had touched her with languid movements and taken her without the same urgency he normally did. He took his time with every caress, every kiss, nip and touch. "I love you…" she had breathed against his lips. "I love you!" she had wailed when she had felt the pressure building to a peak. "I love you…" she had gasped when she came down from that shuddering height.

But now her back is against his chest and his hand is drifting down her belly - she'd not bothered putting her gown back on, had simply drifted off to sleep - through her curls, in between and she sighs happily, shifting slightly, feeling him hard against her lower back. He is so much taller than she is, but not when they are pressed together like this and she wonders…

"Do you… Can you?" She still hasn't found words for any of the things they do, experience, give to each other. He hums and she finds he can.

It's shallow, but nice. His breath is in her neck, his hand that had touched her so intimately travels upwards, cups her breast, teases her nipple. She moves with him, in counter rhythm. Her breath hitches when he hits her just right, just there.

Charles props himself up on his elbow and gently pushes against her hip. She rolls on her front without him pulling out and he palms her bum, his fingers deep into the flesh. Her legs are wide to accommodate her husband and somehow he manages to coax her back somewhat, up some more and she is on her hands and knees and all she can think that he is so much in control now, that he calls all the shots and it's _good_ this way, deep and hard and primal.

She is keening.

The noise is echoing through the room and she ought to be embarrassed, is supposed to be ashamed, but she cannot summon those feelings, only happiness and pride and delight. Joy.

She never knew there would be this much pleasure. That a man could make a woman utter these sounds in complete abandon. She didn't know giving herself this way - that losing control - could feel so good.

She is urging him on now, she is so close but cannot get there and she can feel he is getting tired. His thrusts are shallower now, less vigorous and she pulls away from him, turns and works him back against the mattress, straddles him, takes him deep inside of her and rides him - another form of that primal way they've been loving each other this early morning.

There's a droplet of sweat running down her spine and it adds to everything she is feeling right now.

He climaxes before she does, but she's not far behind and she collapses on top of him.

"Thank you…" she says and kisses him.

"What for?" he asks, sleepily, spent.

"For waiting until I was ready."

"Perhaps I was the one who wasn't ready."

"Perhaps. Perhaps we both just needed time to adjust to not working. To the fact we are now living only for ourselves."

She rolls off him, kisses his shoulder.

"This has been a wonderful honeymoon," she continues and cuddles up close. She can feel Charles' breath evening out.

"But I'm glad we're going home."

"Hmm… me too…" he mumbles.

"Can't wait to get back to the toaster?" She teases.

"Cannot wait to show off my beautiful wife."

* * *

><p>They've only the one suitcase with their dirty laundry (Elsie doesn't think she'll dare send it out, she'll have to soak it in their tub first…) and Elsie's purse filled with unwritten postcards and a few trinkets for their friends. The platform is nearly empty. There aren't a lot of people for this train on a weekday.<p>

An older couple - they are not older, they're about their age - is standing by a small pile of luggage. The train is pulling in, steam floods the platform and Elsie reaches out to find her husband's hand. They have third class tickets (the frugal, thrifty Scotswoman and the Yorkshireman who spent half his life adding and subtracting figures in endless ledgers; both preferring to spend their pennies on icecreams and stamps) and a three hour journey ahead of them. She hopes they'll have the compartment to themselves, to be able to cuddle up to Charles; she wants to hold on to this honeymoon for as long as she possibly can.

Charles opens the door to the compartment and puts their case inside, helps Elsie in and she makes her way to a window seat, facing the direction of travel - not because she might become sick, but because she likes to see their future coming towards them; Charles would rather watch the past leave his sight slowly.

As she puts the suitcase in the luggage rack, she is confronted by the woman who had stood by the pile of luggage on the platform. She is holding a baby: a tiny little bub with a button nose all wrapped up in the softest wool. She can't keep her eyes from the little rosebud lips, the long lashes that flutter against the pale cheeks as the child dreams.

"Isn't she lovely?" the lady asks - by no means a question, the woman is obviously besotted - and continues while Charles is climbing in, trying to get past the woman.

"Oh, dear me, did you want to go through, I do apologise, my husband is trying to get all our things on the train and I am no help at all to him , having to hold the little one!" The woman lets out a hearty chuckle. "You know what, you hold her for a bit, I'll just pop out to give my husband a hand."

And before Elsie can object, her arms are full of newborn loveliness.

* * *

><p>* The Laurel actually existed! It was run by a blacksmith (I don't know why or how…)<p> 


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:** Oh dear me… your reviews threw me for such a loop, I have rewritten this chapter a fair few times! I do hope that nobody is disappointed - please do let me know what you thought! As always: Thank you, Dee. I am sorry to make it hojt so baaaad!

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><p>Charles is looking at her in alarm and he follows the lady out and Elsie can hear him offer his assistance. She smiles. She knows he is worried that the woman will not be back in time, that the train might leave before they can hand the baby back. Elsie sits down on the bench with her precious cargo, pulls back the blanket somewhat, touches the perfectly soft cheek.<p>

"Aren't you a pretty wee thing…" she says softly. "What a good little baby you are, not fussing or anything." She takes a deep breath, taking in that new-baby smell. She is already getting used to the warm weight, she can feel the baby turn a little towards her, her new brassiere less restrictive than her corsets have always been. She brings her lips to the baby's forehead - it's cool, dry. She remembers holding Charlie Parks, other babes of her charges who had gone into the world, married, lived a life as mistresses of their own homes, building their own families.

She's not often thought of having children herself - a fleeting wondering here and there, when she was in her late twenties, early thirties, when there were still young men paying attention to her, men who would try to court her. She had turned them all down - afraid to be trapped the way her mother had been, happy with the path she had chosen. Of course there had been Charles Carson (strong, broad, terribly handsome Charles Carson with his rumbling voice and his soulful eyes, filled to the brim with purpose and skill) and she had not wanted to leave Downton. She had a terribly good place with a very good family - a mistress that let her get on, didn't fuss too much, even spoke to her with kindness - fellow foreigners striking up an easy relationship.

Outside she can hear the train conductor's whistle, the loud thud of a heavy suitcase and the laughter of a woman. The train starts move and for a moment Elsie is as worried as Charles had just been, but the door to the compartment slides open and the middle aged couple bustles in, followed by Charles who is looking rather flustered.

"Thank heavens your husband lent a hand out there, else you'd have gone off with the baby without us!" The woman sits down, talking in the Yorkshire accent Elsie has become so accustomed to in her years of service. She is a calm sort, Elsie can see that. The kind of woman who isn't afraid to take charge. She also sees they don't differ so greatly in age. She takes a glance at the sleeping bairn in her arms and makes to hand the little bundle back.

"No, no, you hold her for a bit, I've been holding her all day."

Elsie holds the baby closer, fights the urge to kiss the tiny little bump of a nose.

The woman across from her continues: "You know how it is with grandchildren. It's lovely, isn't it? It's all the happy joyfulness of your own children, without having to do the hard work."

Elsie bows her head, tears suddenly prickling her eyes. She worries her lip, takes a deep breath before looking up again and she is so happy Charles is there beside her, putting his arm around her.

"Oh dear… Isn't that just like me? I am so very sorry, I never meant to put my foot in it," the woman says seriously. "You look such a natural. I apologise."

Charles clears his throat and Elsie doesn't know what to do, what to say. She gently rocks the baby as the infant makes a little noise. Charles's hand pulls at the blanket, gently touches the downy hair of the baby.

"You must pardon my wife," the man enters the conversation, his brogue as unmistakable as Elsie's own. "She's always excited when there's a new baby in the house. This is our newest granddaughter and we've come to pick her up. Our daughter-in-law passed away three days ago and we have our own daughter at home; she's recently had a baby too. We're hoping she can nurse both children."

Elsie can feel Charles' discomfort. A man speaking so easily, so freely of nursing and babies; of death. She feels terribly sad for the infant in her arms.

"I am so very sorry for your loss," she says solemnly. "What a terrible thing to have happened."

"Yes, it is sad," the woman says and she starts rummaging around her bag, pulls out knitting needles, a knot of white fluffy wool. "Marianne never was very strong and our boy…" There's the deepest sigh Elsie's heard in a very long time. "He's not handling it well. Not well at all. We thought it better to take Hazel with us."

"You've a son and a daughter then?" Elsie asks, trying to steer the conversation as far away from her lingering thoughts of how this is something she'll never have. There are to be no children for them - only those they have left behind at Downton. There are to be no grandchildren - little Charlie is with the Bryants. Miss Sybbie and Master George upstairs in the nursery filled with toys and opportunities.

This may be the last time she'll hold one. She is shaken from her whirling mind as the woman across from her laughs. The man smiles and puts his hand on the woman's knee.

"Yes. A boy and a girl. Then another girl. Then two boys. And then a girl and another boy. Our house was full to bursting," the woman speaks while smiling wide.

"Oh! That's…"

Elsie doesn't know quite what it is, besides it being a full house indeed. Would it be cozy? Fulfilling? Or rather too busy; too crowded? She cannot imagine having such a brood to look after, to care for.

"Loud," the man interjects.

Elsie looks up, smiles. She is reminded of the bustle in the Servants' Hall on Sunday morning after church. How they would all file in, hang their coats, take off their hats. The sound of the girls chattering, the young men walking to and fro. The early lunch they'd all share. Discussions between the younger ones about the newest fashions, the older ones already preparing for the evening or the next day.

She thinks of Anna and of Miss Baxter. Of Mr Bates and Thomas and Daisy. Of Beryl who she is so close with now; who is almost like a sister to them both.

"Yes. I can imagine," she says and leans back slightly.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:** Oh it's been so long since I've posted! Internetless days and difficulties writing are to blame.

Thank you **Dee **for not letting this fic seep into the Twilight Zone:

"_My beacon's been moved under moon and star - Where am I to go now that I've gone too far?_"

I hope you'll all like this! Reviews are appreciated as per usual.

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><p>Charles is warm by her side, comfortable. She can imagine holding a grandchild the way she is holding little Hazel and she wonders if maybe one day she still might. She's been so preoccupied with the idea of 'real' children - carried in her womb for nine months, brought into the world through hours of hardship, fed from her breast - she had almost forgotten about her care for William, the way Charles tried to teach Alfred and his disappointment when the boy had his heart in the kitchen instead of the dining room. But he had taken it with such grace and he had shown such an interest, had supported him so much.<p>

She leans against him a moment, the baby waking up, blinking drowsily.

"Oh… hello…" Elsie says, her voice suddenly higher than usual. She runs the back of her finger over the impossibly soft cheek of the newborn. The baby starts moving her head, burrowing against her breast. She alters the way she has her hold on the child and addresses the woman across from her:

"She's awake and I think she needs a feeding… I don't know… I mean…"

The woman puts down her knitting and rummages around in her large bag, pulling out a bottle with a rubber nipple. "Would you mind, dear?"

Elsie takes the bottle and is reminded of lambing back in Argyll - where sometimes ewes would reject their lambs and she and her sister would feed them with sheep's milk in a bottle like this.

She doesn't know what's in this bottle, doesn't think it right to ask. She hoists up the baby a little and holds the tip of the bottle under her lip. The little rosebud mouth opens, and Hazel starts suckling hungrily.

"So, you've four boys and three girls?" she tries to make conversation - Charles is engrossed in the sports section of the newspaper, the woman's husband is reading a book (she cannot see the title, it could be anything).

"One of my boys went to France."

It's enough explanation. "So did two of ours. One came back only to die here."

"I am so sorry."

The two women eye each other in sympathy. The loss of someone near and dear in the most futile of ways connects deeply.

"Your other boys are both in Robin Hood's Bay?" Elsie asks after a few moments have passed.

"No, oh no. Hazel's father was always a bit of an odd duck. Never really finding his way. He is not a happy man, you know, in general. A bit of a brooder, really, but being with Marianne has been good for him. But now with the baby? He cannot care for her. I'm sure he thinks he can, he always thinks he can do anything my Reg can," the woman looks at her husband fondly, "But it's a special man who can be authoritative and kind at the same time."

"How did you two meet?" Elsie asks. Hazel is a slow drinker - possibly because the sensation of the artificial nipple is so different from the real thing.

"Oh, heavens…" The needles stop clicking; the woman looks like she is getting well and truly settled to tell her story:

"I'd been Head Housemaid at Riddlesden Hall for two weeks when I met Reg in church. A local farmer's son. He was so different from the footmen I was confronted with all day, every day. He was absorbed in his work. He knew the rules and he lived by them, but he always spared a kind word. I fell in love with him because of his voice, because his back would be so straight and he looked so strong. And that kindness that seemed to be buried so deep within him, but was actually right there under the surface. You'd only needed to scratch."

First Elsie gets cold at the woman's story and then she flashes hotly.

She is sitting across from her _other way_. Had she married Joe - had Joe been like Charles, someone to inspire love in her, passion, a burning need.

"After a year of furtive glances and the occasional touch of the hand, he'd come forward and asked me to step out with him. Silly man, he was so worried I'd turn him down! I may not have been very… expressive in my encouragement of him but I loved him so deeply, I couldn't imagine my life without him. I didn't know much about farming, let alone dairy farming, but it's really just like any other job: there are slow times and busy times and there are times things get rough and times you sit back, happily, looking at your life's work."

"A dairy farm?"

"Yes, we started out with nine Jersey cows and we've fourteen now."

She checks on the baby. The bottle is more than half empty now and Hazel has fallen asleep again. Before Elsie's been able to get her wind up. She isn't quite sure what to do. She is a little overwhelmed by the woman - who is still nameless - and her stories; the newborn in her arms such a soft, sweet weight that makes her heart pound awkwardly (not painfully; not now she has heard that children are alike in that you love them, care for them, want what's best for them).

But she is also unafraid of tackling things head on and thus she hands back the bottle and carefully, so very carefully, lifts the baby to lay her upon her shoulder. She is being handed a cloth to drape over her shoulder, so if the baby spits up, her back won't be covered in it.

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><p>Ripon comes into sight and Elsie hands back the baby to her grandmother.<p>

"Goodbye, Hazel," she says, keeping a tight reign on her voice that seems to be stuck in her throat. She doesn't want to admit that in three hours' time, her heart has been stolen by a newborn child and that she has trouble letting go. Charles bends over the baby, runs the tip of his finger over the button nose.

"Goodbye, Hazel. You have been a very lovely companion. My wife will miss you."

He knows her too well and she doesn't know how to push back the tears that threaten to fall.

"Well, you can always come and visit us on the farm, we're only on the outskirts of Ripon, half an hour from the station."

Elsie laughs then, relieved and intrigued at the same time that this woman who is still nameless and who doesn't know her name either would extent such hospitality.

"I'd like that," she accepts the offer.

After all, her days are her own, to be filled with her own wants and needs. There are no bells to answer, no invoices to check. Only her husband to look after. It will be nice to have friends; friends who do not share their history, but are part of their present.

"How about you seek us out next week."

The woman's husband is writing something down on a piece of paper and it turns out to be an address. Charles carefully puts it away in his wallet. The train slows and stops. Elsie pops out of the train and takes their suitcase whilst Charles helps the couple with their many things. The woman is being welcomed by a tall, younger woman holding a young child by the hand and a baby in her arms. There are kisses and cries of joy. Hazel is being shown off, tears fall. Elsie watches them and waits for her husband.

When he comes, he picks up their suitcase and takes her by the hand, leading her to the bus that stands waiting. She climbs in, sits by the window and presses her head against his shoulder.

* * *

><p>They are home and it's exactly how they've left it. Except that there's a small bunch of pretty flowers in a vase and a note from Anna to welcome them back. The mail - what little there is - is on a neat stack on the corner of the table. The plants are all looking healthy and well-cared for.<p>

There's another note, a scribble in Mr Bates' bold handwriting, something about Anna and him calling on them in the next few days. The house smells like home. There are the photographs of many of her past charges on the buffet, their wedding photo hangs framed over the sofa.

Home. She picks up the mail and goes through the letters with practiced swiftness. There's one from her sister (who probably has received her postcard by now), one from a befriended Housekeeper. One from Gwen, and Elsie smiles, because she can feel what news the letter brings and she thinks how maybe in the future this house too will hear the sound of small feet running, the angry cry of hunger.

She puts the letters back, removes her hat, her coat, her shoes. Their suitcase stands in the hall while Charles is checking around the house and she waits for him. She unbuttons her dress one button too low - exposing the dusky rose-coloured satin of her brassiere. She is lifting her skirts to unhook her stockings from her garters; she slides them down her knees, her calves, carefully slips them off her feet.

The door opens and she finds her husband standing on the doormat, looking so pleased to be home, to see her and she is in his arms in two small steps, kisses him fiercely.

"Take me to bed, Mr Carson…" she whispers urgently into his ear.

He happily obliges.


	8. Chapter 8: epilogue

**A/N:** Epilogue time! After all: Charles and Elsie are back home, they have been on their honeymoon and have reached some important conclusions about what family is. So we are fast forwarding into the future: about another six months.

Thank you all for your lovely support, the amazing reviews, the kind PMs, the follows and favourites - you are all just too amazing and I feel so privileged!

Thank you, Deee for teaching me all the things, for calling me back on weirdness, the fabulous talks of eyebrows and our zauberhafte Zusammenarbeit!

* * *

><p>"Elsie? Have you seen my cricket whites?" Charles' voice rumbles through the cottage, rousing Elsie from her daydream. She's just returned from visiting the farm, where she cuddled Hazel and her little cousins - there's always one on the way, it seems - and is dutifully stirring cake batter in a big bowl.<p>

They are expecting visitors for tea. Visitors who she's been thinking about since they have come home after their little honeymoon in Robin Hoods Bay. The note should have given it away, the hastily scribbled words from Mr Bates saying he and Anna would be dropping by when they would have a moment.

Selfishly Elsie had thought it was to listen to their stories, to welcome them home.

She smiles to herself when she remembers how strained her girl had seemed, how there was a nervous little smile slipping from her lips with every other word she spoke, indeed asking about the hotel, the weather, the sights.

Before blurting out that she was going to have a baby.

Mr Bates was beaming. Charles had looked from Elsie back to Anna a fair few times before gathering his wits. Elsie herself had burst into tears (she wasn't exactly ashamed of it, but it wasn't… quite proper, was it?). Anna had teared up too and Charles had gotten up, had shaken Mr Bates' hand rather forcefully, a smile so wide she had rarely seen before.

That evening they had made love slowly, tenderly. When they laid curled around each other (trying to get their breathing under control, their hearts still beating frantically), he had asked her if she was happy. He called her 'grandma'. She had cried again.

"They are in the wardrobe, washed and pressed. Why?" she calls back. She hears his footsteps in the hall coming closer and she puts the bowl on the counter, wipes her hands on her apron.

"Last time I remember seeing my pipe was at the match and I cannot find my pipe, so…"

"So you thought it would still be in your pocket? You don't think I would have noticed when I sent it out to be laundered?"

He raises an eyebrow, shakes his head: "You are getting rather flippant, Mrs Hugh… Mrs Carson."

She returns his smile. It's been a year and he still calls her Mrs Hughes at times, forgetting - perhaps willfully - and she adores him for it. His arms slip around her waist, he nuzzles her cheek with his nose and she puts her arms over his, leans into his loving touch.

"Are you pleased you'll be seeing both of them today?" he asks and she nods.

"All three, you mean," she corrects him gently.

"Of course. It will be strange to have them here," he muses aloud.

"Why strange?"

"I don't think there's ever been a baby in our home before," he explains.

"No…" She puts her hands on his shoulders.

"It's high time, don't you agree?"

* * *

><p>Gwen is looking cheerful and calm; her baby favours her in the sparkle of her eyes and the russet of her hair. Elsie is sitting in the corner of the sofa, the baby in her lap leaning against her. Gwen is beside her and Anna is occupying Charles's chair, her belly round under the fabric of her dress. They chat about Gwen's new life, about how the baby has changed everything. How happy she is to be back to visit Downton.<p>

Elsie asks after the baby's welfare. (Such a bonnie wee thing, smiling generously, not fussing at all, grabbing hold of Elsie's finger and Elsie feels her emotions constricted low in her chest, unable to express what it is exactly what she feels.) Gwen tells enthusiastically of her husband travelling to set up a new branch of his firm in Halifax and that they might be moving there.

Anna sits and watches, sipping from her tea, nibbling on her slice of lemon drizzle cake, looking so contented and genuinely happy, it makes Elsie's heart clench. Ten years her girl has had to wait. Ten long years filled with hardship and terror, with setbacks and waiting - finally to be rewarded with the coming of a child. Elsie takes her cup of tea and drinks, steadying herself.

She wonders when exactly it was when she allowed herself to be ruled by her heart instead of her head. Events pass before her minds' eye: turning down poor Joe, Charles resigning himself to an unhappy life at Haxby Park. William leaving for the war - his sad wedding to Daisy (Daisy who is walking out with one of the farmhands on Mr Mason's farm under the watchful eye of William's father). Ethel's misfortune, giving up Charlie to his paternal grandparents (there are nights she lies awake, wondering if she and Charles could have taken the child, had they been married then and she likes to think they would have, but she can't be sure - can never be sure). Her cancer scare, Charles singing in relief. Picking Charlie Grigg's letter from the wastepaper basket.

Perhaps she's always let her heart dictate her actions. She is happy she has allowed herself to be close to the young women currently in her sitting room, to Daisy. To Beryl Patmore, who is more like a sister than a friend by now.

Her girls chat and Elsie looks at them, the baby warm on her lap, and she picks her up, cuddles her close to her breast, kisses the soft cheeks, nuzzles the crown of her head, taking in that sweet new baby smell. How easy it is for her to fall in love with nearly every babe she holds. Charles is standing in the doorway with a new pot of tea and she catches his eye.

He nods slowly and she nods back, a little quicker, her breath suddenly shallow.

She is fine.

She is fine.

She is sixty-four and she has it all: a husband, a son with steady employment (walking reluctantly but ambitiously in his father's footsteps), their other son who lost his love and tries to find his way upstairs. Her two daughters, happily married. A bairn in her arms, another grandchild on the way.

When the girls leave, Anna lets out a surprised gasp and takes Elsie hand, places it on her bump and then Elsie feels it: life, under her hand, carried safely, protected carefully.

She can only hold back her tears until she's closed the door behind the girls.

* * *

><p>She weeps and it's every last bit of regret and waves of acceptance. He holds her, gently runs his fingers through her hair to remove the pins, unbuttons her dress, leads her to their bed. He quickly sheds himself of his Sunday suit and crawls into bed with her, pulling her close, kissing away the tears.<p>

It takes long minutes before she kisses him back, her tears are dried, her hiccups have subsided. His lips are soft, his hand is warm on her waist - his other arm between them. They've often joked about having an arm too many, no place to put it and she thinks how different things are now, since that cricket match, since they took that final step. He has made love to her, has shown her how it can be, has put all her worries about the mating of men and women to rest.

She has become quite bold, initiating _things_ quite often herself. He's taken to sleeping in only his pyjama bottoms, she's ordered nightgowns that cover her, but don't look like she is hiding herself in a potato sack. She is naked underneath (like she had always been when she was a girl, when she was a young maid and it's liberating) and as Charles' kisses grow more insistent, more heated, he grabs the hem of the white cotton and raises it over her legs, up to her hips and he palms her bottom, pulling her closer.

Her hands are on his cheeks and they kiss. They take their time exploring the plumpness of lips, the dance that they have perfected. His skin is warm under her fingers as she lets her hand slide down his neck and shoulders, pulling him closer, on top of her, his weight comforting, protecting her.

She manages to push his pants down his bum, her fingers trailing over his length and he shudders, barely manages to hold on. He is as tense as she is; she feels it now in the way his back won't arch, the stiffness of his legs. Knows it is because she's been crying.

"I love you…" she whispers, her lips still against his. "I love you… I'm sorry… I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine…"

She wraps herself around him and pushes against him, but she's not there yet. There's too much friction, and the burning sensation makes her grimace in pain. He pulls away, shaking his head. He kisses her cheeks, runs his hand through her hair, rolls beside her, pulls her close.

"I love you, too. My Elsie. I love all of you. Your stubborn ways, your gentle care." He touches her sides, the softness of her belly, the curls (sparser as she ages) at the apex of her thighs and she lets her legs fall open, allows him to soothe her with his voice. The pads of his fingers search her folds, find a trace of moisture and she bites her lip when he touches her more insistently.

"I love you for sharing your sorrow and your fears with me and for listening to mine."

She thinks of late nights in which he tells her he worries about the future. That his body will give out, that his mind will go feeble now he doesn't practice it daily with ledgers and meticulous handwriting. He has held her as she's wept for children unborn to her and to him and he has told her of his disappointments: Thomas who is a good butler, ambitious, well-trained, but _not quite a man_. He speaks of Alfred who he felt had such potential. He talks of William and the slow, horrendous death the boy had to bear. Jimmy who would be better off in a dancehall as bartender or some such.

And he keeps touching her and she starts meeting his ministrations with a roll of her hips, a deep, throaty moan.

"Oh…" she sighs into his ear, her hand creeping up to his shoulder again, pulling again, the tightening of her sex coming upon her fast as he keeps stroking her folds, as he slips his fingers inside her and out again. She is expecting the waves of release, keens.

"Take me… for heaven's sakes…"

It's profane and wanton, but she has never had trouble saying what she needs and he has never had trouble taking orders and he is over her in a moment, wrapping her legs around his waist and he plunges in and she almost shouts her pleasure.

He moves quickly (he is so hard, hitting her everywhere she needs him to and she had been so close already) and she closes her eyes, letting herself soar upon the clouds that start filling her senses. There's only pleasure, only happiness now. She chases away a fleeting thought of how her own bairns would have been made like this; her children have come to her on their own accord and stayed, have given her such joy and she has felt Anna's child move under her hand, held Gwen's daughter in her arms and it is good, her life has been so good to her, so good, so good…

"Ooh, yes… god, Charles… yes, yes, yes!"

Charles holds her to him, his arm under her, his hand on her hip and she feels him climax through the fog of coming down from her own.

He slips from her and she turns to her side, puts her head on his shoulder and is gathered close.

"We should have married a long time ago," he says, his voice broken.

"No… no… my love. Do not regret the life we've had. It's been a good life. Nary a day where we've gone to bed hungry, never a day when we've gone without shoes. We have built a life within the walls of Downton and we are building one outside it now and it's good. It's a good life, Charles."

She is hoarse, her orgasm has come upon her almost violently, taking with it her voice.

"It's a good life."


End file.
